I’m watching the Pamela Anderson documentary about her love life. Through loads of video footage and her extraordinary journaling, she details falling in love with Tommy Lee. Being a teen in the 90s, the media perception of her relationships made it seem like she was a promiscuous wild child. In reality, she’s a woman who loved being in love.
The most complex relationship people who had troubled childhoods is the one they have with their own hearts.
I’ve written so much about my troubled upbringing. Absent and overly religious father with ultra-strict rules. A mother raised by a terrible stepfather, unable to give love or parent with true affection. Like a true Gen Xer, emotions were not acknowledged.
I’m good at very few things but I’m an Oscar winner for my poker face.
My physical pain tolerance is high. I joke the only time I ever feel extreme pain is from paper cuts (those hurt like a mofo). I’ve had loads of cosmetic procedures, plastic surgery, and C-sections but at worst I come across as Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino.
Emotional pain…that’s a whole other beast.
I’ll laugh. I’ll smile. I’ll grit my teeth. I don’t like uncomfortable situations and would rather deal with internal pain than make those around me feel awkward.
When I found out my ex-husband was getting happy-ending massages, I stayed quiet for days. I pretended all was well and was nauseous the day I brought it up in marriage counseling. As anticipated, he turned the tables because I was the bad guy for my snooping and surprise attack.
It seems I’m the Avoidant Type. I’d rather get stabbed in the eyes than have someone disclose their feelings about me. It attracts the kind of men who thrive on the pursuit but typically have women chasing them for attention.
An avoidant knows the moment someone falls in love with them.
From that point onward, it feels like every interaction needs a shield. I can’t show a hint of affection because that other person will misconstrue it to have greater meaning. The lack of emotion I display then intensifies anything that I do say, further fueling their drive for me to become “theirs”.
Here’s where it gets dicey: I’m of the Anxious-Avoidant variety.
This means that I give zero fucks about a guy when I’m dating him. It’s all for fun because I have too many demons to let just anyone in on my internal world (Medium readers are the blessed ones who get privy to all my thoughts).
When I crack and fall for someone, my brain flips into Anxious mode. I become paranoid that they’ll leave. When I don’t get an immediate text reply, I wonder if I’ve done something wrong or if they’re trying to find ways to ditch me. I read and re-read every line, agonizing over benign statements.
Getting ready to see them takes hours. No stray eyebrow hairs are allowed. I pray to the Beauty Gods that I’ll have a good face day so my makeup goes on flawlessly. I try on dozens of outfits. I panic more about my appearance for a date with someone I like than I did on my wedding day.
The Depression Monster inside murmurs that this person will leave me. They’ll realize they can do better. They’ll see that I’m too different. I’ve always been different. I didn’t grow up in a conventional, white Christian household and while my quasi-exotic being is interesting at first, I believe that it’s too weird for anyone I like.
They hold all the cards. I cling to my power as best as I can. I avoid double-texting. I sometimes pause before jumping to reply with a mental countdown of thirty minutes. The Avoidant Type is chill and cool; I know what to display to not come across as a needy Avoidant.
And then we have Jeremy.
Jeremy. (Insert church choir hymns.)
I’ve never met a man who is a true Secure attachment type. He’s confident. He’s not needy. He’s not aloof. He knows who he is, what he brings to the table, and is secure enough to be teased endlessly. He’s dreamy AF.
I know the exact moment I realized I’m in love with him.
It’s been six months of dating. Have I DTRed yet? Nope. I’m mildly infuriated but I take comfort in knowing Jeremy spends as much time with me as he can, he has no qualms about me being at his house when he’s not there, and I’ve met most of his local friends.
Having the approval of his male bros is a big deal. One of them asked him if I can hang out with them again “and bring a friend as hot as her”.
We plan a night in Santa Monica because for Christmas, I got him a private lesson for his hobby in Los Angeles. When drunk, he often prattled about how he never got the opportunity to pursue his interests. I patted myself on the back for my thoughtful gift.
It also had nothing to do with how the lesson was scheduled so far in advance that Jeremy had no choice but to stay with me until then. Yeah, the Anxious type in me still needs feeding.
He gave me small tokens for Christmas and told me what he got for me was back-ordered. A month later with no word about what it was, I assumed he didn’t buy anything. I know to act like it’s no big deal (as an Avoidant) but deep down, I’m seething that I care more about him than he does for me (as an Anxious type) and I took the time to research something meaningful.
During Jeremy’s lesson, I try not to seethe as I kill time for two hours at a nearby mall. But I have no right to be angry. He handled the gorgeous hotel we’re staying at (with points but still…I’m a cheapskate who uses as few points as possible). He pays for almost everything. The guy saved me a fortune in home repair costs. I have no right to be pissed, right?
I brush it aside and go on with my day. I have a bangin’ dress for that night and Jeremy makes a reservation for a fancy schmancy steak house. I’m angry I didn’t get a picture of us that night, the dress was freaking amazing and sexy for a mere ten bucks at Shein.
We Uber it to the restaurant despite it being only a few blocks away. My 4″ Jessica Simpson heels aren’t ideal for more than standing and looking pretty. We grab a drink at the bar and then the hostess takes us to our table.
Jeremy reaches into his jacket and brings out a smushed box covered in Christmas wrapping paper. “Oh my God, I can finally take this out of my pocket!” he exclaims while tossing it on the table.
“Damn, I’m a dick for mentally cursing him out earlier,” I think to myself.
Inside is a printout. Jeremy explains the present is still on backorder. I unfold and I realize he’s purchased the Dyson Airwrap for me. Months prior, I mentioned how I wish I had one but I didn’t need one and they’re sold out everywhere anyway.
I think I screamed in delight. “How did you know what to get? There’s no way you know what this thing is,” I tell him.
“I asked my step-sisters,” Jeremy explains. “I said ‘it’s a fancy hair thing’ and they immediately said ‘the Dyson Airwrap’”. The Anxious type in me is giddy that he spoke to his step-sisters about me. They know of my existence. If he’s looking to bang other women, he wouldn’t ask them about me, right?
He also wouldn’t spend a few hundred dollars on a hair appliance if he didn’t like me, right?
We eat and drink while chatting away all evening. My brain often wanders when I look at him, thinking “look at him, he’s sooooo dreammmyyyyy”.
This time, I look at him babbling away, and it hits me: I love him.
Fuck. Fuck.
I fought this feeling. I tried. I don’t ever say “I love you” first and I sure as fuck am not saying it now. My Anxious-Avoidant brain freezes and my body stiffens as I try to act cool at the realization that I’m royally fucked.
The rest of the weekend goes off without a hitch. It dawns on me that despite our plans only being for a Saturday, Jeremy kept asking to hang out with me Friday through Monday morning. It quells the panic inside of me that I’ve fallen for a guy who hasn’t tried to lock me down into commitment.
I know the dating game well enough that it’s better for me in the long run to let Jeremy take the lead. He needs to feel like this is his doing and not an insecure chick pushing him in one direction. Between meeting his friends and his family knowing of my existence, I tell myself that I must have some kind of meaning in his life…right?
I’m impatient but I can play the long game. Jeremy will fall in love with me and he’ll tell me first.
If he doesn’t and our relationship ends, then I’ll get a few cats and live my life as a crazy cat lady. That’s not so bad, right?
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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